


stellar collision

by owlsareheadturners



Series: planetary motion [2]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Crack...?, Die Neue These, M/M, one man's inadvertent quest to convert the whole of the fpa into a siegfried kircheis fan club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlsareheadturners/pseuds/owlsareheadturners
Summary: Prequel...? Sequel...? Presequel...(?)  tostellar flare. Takes place after the main events ofstellar flarebut happens before the epilogue. In which Julian tries his best to get rid of a very incriminating piece of evidence.
Relationships: Dusty Attenborough & Ivan Konev & Oliver Poplin, Walter von Schenkopp/Yang Wenli
Series: planetary motion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972393
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	stellar collision

**Author's Note:**

> i have grown to love the poplin-dusty-konev trio ;v; they're babieeee

“Mintz? Mintz? Hey, Julian! You in there?”

Julian Mintz slams his locker shut so fast he almost clips his fingers in the door, and when Olivier Poplin storms into the locker room he sees a red-faced Julian with his back against his locker door, trying his darndest to look wholly innocent and as nonchalant as possible. 

Poplin scowls at him suspiciously, but doesn’t pursue the matter. “You’re late, kid. Commodore’s been lookin’ for ya way too long—minute later and he woulda raised the whole ship.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the door. “Go on, get yer ass outta here.”

“Yes, sir!” Relieved, Julian scampers past Poplin and escapes into the corridor. Poplin squints at Julian’s locker door, then clicks his tongue and turns away. 

“Bet it’s porn. Always is.”

* * *

Wiping sweat from his forehead, Julian takes a long draught from his canteen, sighing as the cold water refreshes him a little, and plucks at his shirt to cool himself down.

Commodore Walter von Schönkopf leans against the wall, frowning at Julian’s latest target board.

“Hmmm… No better than before, unfortunately. Think you can go again?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good man—then let’s have at ‘em. Here—use this.”

Julian looks up to see von Schönkopf holding out a navy blue handkerchief with a small rose embroidered in the corner. 

“Thanks, Commodore.” Julian smiles, wipes his mouth carefully with the handkerchief, and hands it back to von Schönkopf, who tucks it back into his pocket. 

“Get into position; I’ll guide you this time,” von Schönkopf says. Picking up his standard-issue blaster, Julian walks over to the range, grim determination settling like sand in his ribcage.

“Feet apart and don’t lock your knees,” von Schönkopf instructs, pushing off the wall and going over to him. “Keep your centre of gravity low—” he pushes against Julian’s back with his hand gently but firmly to check his balance— “That’s it.” Now von Schönkopf reaches forward to cup his hands around Julian’s, and his palms on the backs of Julian’s hands feel unusually warm in contrast to the cold metal of the blaster Julian's got aimed at the target at the end of the range. 

“Steady, now,” mutters the Commodore right next to his ear, sliding his hands back to support Julian’s upper arms as he leans forward slightly to correct Julian’s posture, nudging him into place with his chest pressed against Julian’s shoulder and upper back. The Commodore is tall, much taller than Julian, and something in Julian's chest flutters a little when he smells von Schönkopf’s cologne; earthy and pine, it makes him feel as if he’s all alone in the middle of a deep forest, and he prays that von Schönkopf won’t notice his hands shaking.

Unfortunately for him, von Schönkopf does. 

“You know what, I think we should call it a day, soldier,” he sighs, letting go of Julian and stepping away, and Julian drops his trembling arms to his sides, relieved. 

“You haven’t been yourself since we started, kiddo. Everything okay?”

When von Schönkopf doesn’t get a response, he claps one powerful hand onto Julian’s shoulder, making Julian’s already weak knees tremble. “Or has the Admiral been too hard on you again? Just say the word and I’ll tell him off for you, Julian.”

Was it just his imagination, or did the tone of von Schönkopf’s voice sound like “telling off” would involve quite some degree of… _physical persuasion_?

Julian shivers, his mind flickering back over and over again to that night on the bridge, the two silhouettes chained together in a slow, writhing dance; his Admiral’s filthy, panted moans, the faint glow from the ocean of starlight illuminating the deep erotic curve of his Admiral's waist; the discarded beret, lying right by Julian’s feet… His heart pounding as, against his better judgment, he bent over to pick it up, bent over as von Schönkopf had bent his Admiral over the railing, the rough felt of the beret dragging guilt against his fingertips as his Admiral’s body crested underneath von Schönkopf’s like a wave, staining the bridge’s guard wall with seafoam-shining white…

“Julian… Julian? You look awful. Maybe I should take you to the infirmary instead…”

“I—I’m fine, sir,” Julian manages, but his thoughts are racing and he can think about nothing else but the beret, now sitting like a lump of radioactive material in his locker and on his mind. He hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else to put it—his bunkmates would discover it if he hid it in his room, and he couldn’t just go up and give it back to the Admiral all _“Sir, I picked this up when my combat instructor was fucking you on the bridge a while ago, and I thought you might like to have it back—”_

—No, no, no; that wouldn’t do. He’d thought his locker was safe, but Poplin had almost caught him with it there, and it was definitely time he disposed of it somehow. Maybe… maybe he could sneak it back into Admiral Yang’s cabin? But he’d didn’t have the access… or maybe he could plant it somewhere, leave it lying around for someone to find and return… But there were cameras all over the ship; he might be caught if the Admiral or Commodore von Schönkopf got suspicious and watched the security footage… 

Argh, no good. The damned thing had been occupying his thoughts for a good few days now, and it put him constantly on edge, paranoid that people might catch him… 

He couldn’t even pretend it was his: it flopped down awkwardly over his forehead when he’d tried to put it on, and even that felt like an act of disrespect… Also, it had smelled like his Admiral’s shampoo, and he’d quickly taken it off again, his face beet red for a reason he didn’t quite understand.

In conclusion, he was screwed. Well and truly screwed. 

“How about this,” von Schönkopf was saying, patting Julian on the back. “Why don’t you do some cooldown stretches and I’ll get us both a drink, and then we can pack up and go for dinner.” 

… The way things were going, it was a miracle that Julian might find any appetite in him at all. 

* * *

“Right, let’s see…” Poplin peers closely at the keypad lock on Julian’s locker, muttering to himself. He fishes a screwdriver from his pocket and unscrews the panel lock, slides a paper clip in and wiggles it around to disable the anti-tamper switch, then slowly works the panel open, and bridges the two contacts in the mechanism with another paperclip. There’s a click as the locker door unlocks.

“Aaaand, _voilà_! How’s that for size?” Poplin flashes a thumbs-up and a cocky grin in the direction of his rapt audience.

Leaning close to observe, Commodore Dusty Attenborough says in amazement, “Where did you learn to do that, Olivier?”

“Let’s just say that sometimes you learn more than just the stuff they teach you in class at cadet school. I’m awful good at it now, is all I know,” replies Poplin with a grin while he screws the panel back into place, Lieutenant Ivan Konev standing beside him stoically with his arms crossed and Attenborough with his hands clasped together in front of his chest, looking on anxiously. 

“But Olivier, that’s gotta be an invasion of—”

“—Privacy be damned, Dusty! Have ya _seen_ the kid? He’s been spendin' way too much time in here recently, and he acts like he’s stashed Reinhard von bloody Lohengramm himself in that locker of his every time someone comes in. It’s about time we found out what exactly it is he’s been keepin' in here. Now, Ivan, if you’d do us the honours—”

Konev slowly peels the locker door open, and all three wait with baited breath—

“You’ve got to be _shitting_ me,” Poplin says, seriously, while Konev stifles a laugh that sounds suspiciously like “It’s not _Reinhard_ ,” and Attenborough watches on in wide-eyed bemusement. 

There, before their very eyes, is a life-size Empire propaganda poster of High Admiral Siegfried Kircheis, stuck up in the position of pride on the locker door like a gravure idol. Somehow Mintz had gotten his grubby little hands on it, they didn’t know how—stolen, begged or borrowed—and now this _monstrosity_ was here, an enemy smack-bang in the middle of their territory, gazing down at them with a gentle smile on his face. Kircheis is posed in his crisp military uniform with a ceremonial sword at his hip, and the tagline at the bottom proclaims, in flamboyant red letters the same goddamn colour as his stupid smooth hair, _Victory is at hand! Trust in our Imperial Navy!_

Poplin says, “Why, the little—” Konev lets out his long-repressed chuckle, and Attenborough says, quiet and pink-cheeked, “Actually, y’know, he does look pretty good like that…”

“Not you _too_ , Dusty!” Poplin is starting to sink into the throes of despair. 

Konev drones, “Admit it, Olivier. You only hate him ‘cause he’s tall and good-looking.” 

“—What, and _I’m_ not? … Stop _gawking_ , Dusty; that’s fraternising with the enemy!”

“Gentlemen… what exactly is the commotion?” 

Commodore Walter von Schönkopf, carrying two cans of coffee in his hand, chooses the worst possible moment to stick his head into the locker room and catches all three of them staring at the propaganda poster with various expressions of shock and awe on their faces.

Poplin is the first to regain his bearings. “Oh, no, no—Commodore— _sir_ , it’s not what it looks like—”

Von Schönkopf merely grins. “Well, well. Wasn’t aware the three of you were… _fans_.” 

Poplin’s tone is starting to verge on horrified. “Commodore; no, really, you’ve got it all wrong, I’m definitely not—”

“—I must say, he’s rather the looker, isn’t he? A little too young to be competing in my class though, thank goodness.” He runs the fingers of his free hand through his fringe, pushing it back from his handsome face, and all three younger men immediately feel slightly uncomfortable. 

“Alright, I’ll leave you three to it,” von Schönkopf announces. “ _Enjoy_ yourselves, gentlemen.” He winks and leaves, disappearing down the corridor before anyone can stop him. 

* * *

The mess hall that evening is a cloud of chatter and buzz, men and women talking and laughing over their food. Julian is sitting alone at one of the corner tables, spooning curry despondently into his mouth, when a shadow falls over his tray and he looks up. 

“Lieutenant Poplin…? Oh, and Lieutenant Konev and Commodore Dusty too!”

Konev greets him with two fingers touched to his beret in a mock salute, and Attenborough gives him a wide, sparkling smile. “Hey, Julian!”

Poplin’s grin, however, looks more like a grimace as he slides onto the bench opposite Julian, his expression clouded. “Hey, Mintz… you’ve got some explaining to do.” 

“Y-yes, Lieutenant?” Unease blooms in the pit of Julian’s stomach as Poplin continues, “About that—that _thing_ in your locker…”

Julian’s latest spoonful of curry gets stuck in his throat, and he wheezes for air as Attenborough thumps him on the back and Konev wordlessly hands him a glass of water.

“Lieutenant—” Julian gasps as soon as he’s able to speak, his face blanching completely, and Poplin takes a moment to savour those delicious few seconds of schadenfreude, “I can explain—”

“Mintz,” Poplin retorts darkly as he leans over the table, “You _do_ know that possession of such… ah, _items…_ constitutes evidence for a _serious_ violation of the Code, don’t you…”

“I… I…” Julian is now swaying a little in his seat, and Attenborough exclaims in consternation, one hand on Julian’s shoulder to keep him from falling over, “Olivier, stop—you’re gonna make him pass out if you keep it up…”

Konev sighs, rubbing his temples. “Relax, soldier. This bastard here—” He smacks Poplin upside the head— “Is just messing with your head since he got an earful from Commodore von Schönkopf earlier. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Julian relaxes visibly. “That—that’s good to hear, sir,” he says weakly, putting down his spoon and getting off the bench to pick up his tray.

“Oh—Julian, are you not having that anymore?” Attenborough’s curls swing forward as he leans over, his eyes gleaming opportunistically. 

“You can have it if you like, Commodore,” Julian mumbles glumly. “I think I’m going to turn in early tonight…”

“Still, that was an awful big fuss to be kicking up over a single poster,” Konev frowns as they watch Julian stagger off, looking shellshocked. “I can understand if he doesn’t want people knowing that he admires High Admiral Kircheis, but isn’t that a little of an overreaction? —Even if you _were_ hamming it up a little, Olivier,” he scowls at Poplin.

“That,” says Poplin through a mouthful of roast chicken, “Was all about strikin' the righteous fear of justice into his suggestible little heart.”

“Lies,” grumbles Konev, and reaches for his dessert, only to realise that there’s an empty slot on his meal tray where his pudding is supposed to be, and that Attenborough’s mouth is suspiciously full.

“Commodore Dusty—!”

* * *

Julian stares vacantly into the depths of his locker, the offending beret sitting innocently on his lap. 

“What would _you_ do, Admiral Kircheis?” he sighs, looking up at the poster. Kircheis smiles mysteriously back.

“Julian…? Is that you?” 

“C-Commodore von Schönkopf—!” Julian turns around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, stuffing the beret deep into his locker. 

Von Schönkopf enters the locker room, walking over to where Julian’s sitting. “You feeling better, soldier?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for the concern.” Julian finds it in himself to crack a small smile as von Schönkopf reaches down and musses his hair playfully.

Von Schönkopf looks up again and catches sight of the poster on Julian’s door. “Ah, so that was _yours_ …”

Julian’s cheeks go a little pink. “Yes, sir.”

Von Schönkopf chuckles. “I _knew_ something had gotten into you at the hostage exchange… Best keep this away from the good people of the Alliance, or we’ll have admirers defecting to the Empire in the thousands.”

“I… I do think High Admiral Kircheis is a good man, sir.”

Von Schönkopf hums his acknowledgement. “It’s a shame we were fated to be enemies… You know, sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if Grandpops hadn’t defected from the Empire…”

“Commodore?”

“—I’d probably still be living a boring life in some run-down country house, wearing stuffy suits all day.” Von Schönkopf pulls a face. “Nah, I’m glad that old fart turned tail and fled. The Empire’s not a good place to be now, not even if you’re nobility. Von Lohengramm is gathering men of common birth to join his cause. And Kircheis is the foremost of them.” 

He taps the glossy paper of the poster absentmindedly with one finger. 

“That’s a good spirit you’ve got, Julian. Even if we are on opposite sides of the battlefield, it doesn’t hurt to acknowledge your adversary’s strengths. War is the true evil here, as well as the bureaucracy that forces good men to tear at each other’s throats.” 

He sighs. “That’s enough from me, I suppose. I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to the ramblings of an old geezer… Odin, I sound just like Admiral Yang now, don’t I?” The playful grin is back on his face. “Still, you really should watch who you’re telling about this poster, kiddo. The way I’d caught the three of them just now… You should’ve seen Olivier’s face!” He chuckles at the memory.

“Sir…?”

Von Schönkopf glances down at his watch, and does a double take. “Would you look at the time! Admiral Yang’s gonna be all over me if I turn up late. Right, see you tomorrow—I expect you to put a hundred and twenty per cent in next morning, y’hear?”

He waves and strides off, leaving Julian sitting alone in the locker room, a mix of emotions flooding his chest.

That meant… that meant… all that fuss from Poplin earlier hadn’t been about the beret at all! He was still off the hook… Julian stands, determination rising anew in his heart. Still, that had been way too much of a close call. It definitely wasn’t safe to keep the beret in there anymore—he’d find somewhere safer in his room to stash it for the time being, until he could at least come up with a better idea.

With that, Julian stands, digs the beret out of the depths of his locker, and runs for his room. He makes it down the length of the corridor, skids around the corner, and flies smack-bang into Olivier Poplin himself.

The beret sails out of Julian’s hand as he tumbles to the ground. 

“Ow,” he groans, and sits up, rubbing his forehead. It doesn’t feel like he’s broken anything, which is good, at least.

Poplin’s concerned voice says, from somewhere above him, “Mintz? Mintz? You okay? Watch where you’re going, jeez…”

“I-I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Julian mumbles, and that’s when he sees it. Poplin’s got the beret pinched between finger and thumb, as if it were a newborn kitten, or something he’d fished out of a trash can. 

Julian’s stomach plummets, and he feels himself breaking out into a cold sweat as Poplin says, squinting at the beret, “… What’s this, Mintz?”

“N-nothing, sir,” mumbles Julian, praying to every last deity he can think of all at once. 

“Doesn’t look like nothin' to me,” Poplin presses.

“Can I just have it back now, Lieutenant? Please?” Julian’s on the verge of pleading now—he can’t help it.

“And why should I do _that_?” 

“I… It’s mine, sir,” Julian says weakly, his hand still outstretched. 

Poplin raises an eyebrow. 

“ … So why on Heinessen does it say ‘Yang Wen-li’ on the inside?” 

Julian squeezes his eyes shut, and curses all the hours he spent painstakingly embroidering his Admiral’s name onto the brims of all his berets. 

A sort of grievously misguided comprehension dawns on Poplin’s face as he says, “So _that’s_ what you didn’t want people to find out about… and you’ve been spendin' all that time in the locker room with it, too…” He looks from the beret to Julian’s pale face, and then back again, and Julian gets the feeling that he’s about to make a very incriminating connection.

True to form, Poplin says, incredulously, “No way… Julian, don’t tell me… You’ve been _wankin' it_ to Admiral Yang’s beret, haven’t ya?” He fists his hand and jerks it up and down dramatically, and the beret flops around like a dead fish in his fingers.

Julian’s eyes go wide. “No, sir, I would _never_ —”

“Then why the hell have ya been sneakin' around with it like that?” Poplin demands.

“I… I…”

“You nicked that from him, didn’t ya?” Poplin accuses, his eyes narrowing further. “Oooh, you just wait till he finds out—”

“Lieutenant, I swear, that’s really not how it happened—”

“Then tell me the truth, kid.” Poplin crosses his arms. “And don’t think you can get away with tellin’ some half-assed fib. I’ve got my eyes on ya.”

Julian sighs, resigns himself to his fate. “Please don’t tell anyone, sir, but it’s a long story…”

* * *

“Damn, I thought being a Siegfried Kircheis fan was bad enough, but you’ve really gone and done it this time, haven’t ya?” Poplin shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls open the ring tab of a canned coffee, handing it to Julian. “Drink up, kiddo. You look like you just went through a serious shellin'.” 

Julian cups his hands around the warmth of the can. “I’d just wanted to see if the Admiral wanted a cup of tea, and when I got to the bridge, they were… they were…” He swallows a gulp of coffee nervously.

“Well, there’s no givin’ it straight back to him,” Poplin muses, “Not after all that. There’s no way you could sneak it into his locker, either… you need clearance for their locker room, and none of us have _that_ … Wait, hold on… ” 

Suddenly Poplin leaps up from the bench in excitement, pounding his fist into his open palm. “Tell me I’m a bloody genius, Mintz!” 

“Lieutenant?” 

“We can’t get it into the _Admiral’s_ locker, but Commodore von Schönkopf’s locker is right in this room! Lemme see, I think it was around here…” 

Poplin wanders off, trailing his finger up and down the rows of lockers as he mumbles to himself. 

“Oi, Olivier! —So you were hiding in here, you bastard.” Konev’s voice rings out through the doorway as he strides in. “And Julian, too. Hope you’re feeling a little better now; that was just Olivier’s stupid idea of a joke… What’s that madman up to now anyway?” he mutters, casting a suspicious sidelong glance at Poplin. 

“Julian! Thanks for the curry, it was real delicious,” Attenborough sings as he flounces in behind Konev. “Also, I got you some chocolate! Hope it makes you feel better.” He motions for Julian to hold his hand out, and deposits a few Hershey’s Kisses into Julian’s palm in the manner of a Christmas elf.

“Thank me for my pudding too, why don’t you, Commodore,” Konev grumbles as he walks up behind Poplin and chops his hand down like a knife onto Poplin’s head. 

“Ow—! Ivan, you absolute _wanker—_ ”

“ _Lan-guage_ , Olivier~”

“ _For_ _God’s sake,_ Dusty _,_ not _now_ —!”

It takes them another minute to stop bickering and quiet down, and then the two newcomers demand an explanation—of course—and Julian finds himself repeating, for what seems like the umpteenth time, the grisly tale of how he’d come to be in the possession of Admiral Yang’s beret. 

Well, it would’ve been way less graphic if it were up to him, only Commodore Dusty kept asking for more details… 

“Here it is,” Poplin calls wearily just as Julian finishes up, and that gives him a great excuse to dodge Attenborough’s next question about whether Commodore von Schönkopf really _did_ have that scar on his left buttcheek, as legend apparently had it.

“Where is the Commodore, anyway?” asks Konev. “I doubt he’d be too pleased if he were to come back and see all four of us rooting through his stuff.”

“We’re not _rootin'_ , Ivan,” Poplin protests as he gives his screwdriver another vigorous wrench, “We’re just makin' use of an _expedited supply channel_.”

“Seriously, Olivier? All those theory lessons in cadet school and _this_ is what you use them for?” 

“Oh, _sod_ off, Ivan.” 

Finally the locker door emits a _click_ and Poplin replaces the panel, screwing it firmly back into place. 

“Right, Mintz. This is a simple job. In and out. No hesitation. We don’t wanna be caught. Y’hear me, soldier?” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Deployin' troops in three… two… one…” Poplin pulls open the door. “Aaand, go!”

Julian tosses the beret in like it’s a live grenade and slams the door closed, his heart pounding as the lock clicks, sealing the door shut. All four of them breathe a collective sigh of relief. 

And that’s when they hear it: muffled, suppressed, but the unmistakable sound of Admiral Yang’s voice. 

_“_ _Please—please, Schönkopf, ngh, please—”_

* * *

“I’ve never,” gasps Poplin, “Picked a lock so fast in my life.”

They’re gathered in a circle, staring down at Commodore von Schönkopf’s phone. Apparently, when Julian had tossed the beret inside, the thing had landed on the screen and resumed the current track.

Which was, for some reason, an hour-long voice recording of Vice Admiral Yang Wen-li’s salacious moans. 

Even though they’ve got the phone in front of them, nobody has quite had the self-control to stop the recording, and so on and on it goes—all four are treated to the wet, lewd noises of the Hero of El Facil being bent over the bridge by the Commander of the Rosen Ritter, and the stifled sounds of Yang’s gasps as he tries to keep them down. 

_“Do you doubt me, Admiral? Or perhaps you’d like to put my words to the test—go on, I’m sure young Julian would_ love _to hear you_ screaming _my name—”_

Julian turns beet red, and there’s a chorus of low _ooohs_ from the others. 

“Shhh,” Konev whispers suddenly, “D’you hear that?”

Distant footsteps, ambling slowly down the corridor. 

Poplin snatches the phone up and begins to tap the screen frantically. 

“Olivier, quick; what are you doing?” Attenborough hisses at him. 

“Just gimme five seconds, lemme—” Poplin hisses back, looking back and forth between von Schönkopf’s phone and his own. 

When Walter von Schönkopf strolls into the locker room, whistling to himself, he sees the four of them seated in a row, all staring intently at the propaganda poster of High Admiral Siegfried Kircheis and trying to look as wholly innocent and nonchalant as possible. 

“Why, good evening, gentlemen,” von Schönkopf says, walking over to his locker. 

“Sir,” is the mumbled, chorused reply. Poplin in particular looks like he’s about to suffer an aneurysm. 

“Hope you’re _enjoying_ yourselves.” 

“Sir.” Poplin’s face is starting to go a little green. 

It takes, what seems to the four, an eternity for von Schönkopf to change, and they all sit up rigid as von Schönkopf mutters to himself, “Strange… spent a whole hour looking for this damn thing; I could’ve sworn it disappeared from the bridge that night…”

Eventually he’s done, and bids them a hearty good night as he leaves again, taking both phone and beret with him. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, the four breathe a collective sigh. Poplin gets up, glares at the Kircheis poster one more time for good measure, and slams Julian’s locker door shut with no shortage of malice. Attenborough says, nodding at Poplin’s phone, “What are you gonna do with that recording you just nabbed, Olivier?” 

“I dunno yet,” Poplin replies, “But it’s good to keep things like this in handy. Just in case.” He palms his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. “Let’s just get out of here, shall we? If I look at that redheaded bastard’s face for a second longer I think I’m gonna throw up.” 

“Says you,” says Konev, staring pointedly at Poplin’s own bright-coloured mop. 

“Mind your own damn business, Ivan.” 

* * *

Walking down the corridor, Walter von Schönkopf hears the unmistakable _crash_ of a locker door being slammed. 

He stops for a moment to look back, then clicks his tongue and turns away. 

“Bet it’s porn. Always is.”

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> i'm enjoying myself a little too much


End file.
